


Matched

by ginnyred



Series: Football & the Classics [1]
Category: SKAM (Italy)
Genre: Football | Soccer, M/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-27
Updated: 2019-01-27
Packaged: 2019-10-17 17:29:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17564882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ginnyred/pseuds/ginnyred
Summary: When Marti told him the five-a-side football tournament began in two weeks, Nico smiled gently and said: “That's great. Is Chinese okay for dinner?”With hindsight, he might have underestimated the whole thing a little bit.





	Matched

**Author's Note:**

> Hints of Elia/Filippo: not in a "they're together" kind of way, but rather in a "isn't that friend of Marti's cute" kind of way.

When Marti told him the five-a-side football tournament began in two weeks, Nico smiled gently and said: “That's great. Is Chinese okay for dinner?”

With hindsight, he might have underestimated the whole thing a little bit.

He starts getting a clearer picture of how much this matters one afternoon at recess when he finds the boys sitting on the steps in the courtyard looking grim, hands in their hair, an air of existential despair about them. Il Peccio is with them too.

Nico sits next to Marti, kisses his cheek, and asks: “What's going on?”

“The tournament,” Marti mutters under his breath without looking up.

“What about it?”

Gio hands him a piece of paper without a word. It's a list of team names and players: Nico finds the boys pretty quickly and raises an eyebrow.

“ _Manchesta Nessunartro_ *. That's your team name?”

“It's a self-deprecating classic, so the other teams will underestimate us – I mean, not that we don't suck. But that's not the problem,” Gio explains tiredly. “It's the rule about the kit. Read at the bottom.”

“This fine print here? _No team shall be allowed to compete unless all the players are wearing matching jerseys (shorts of different colour are allowed: see rule 3.b for more details on this). The rule shall be enforced in order to guarantee that no mistakes are made on match days_ blah blah blah.” Nico looks up at the boys and meets Elia's gaze, who shakes his head in quiet desperation. “I'm guessing you guys don't have matching jerseys.”

“Last year in the eight-a-side tournament they let us play anyway. Galvani lent us some bibs and we used those,” Elia says, rolling his eyes. “But apparently this tournament is gonna be full of dickheads who can't tell who's on their team and who isn't unless they have fucking matching jerseys.”

“And we can't afford them,” Luca chimes in. “We were looking it up just now. Custom-made jerseys are expensive as hell.”

“Custom-made?”

“Yes, that's another problem,” Il Peccio replies, all serious and composed. “You can't just show up in your AS Roma kit, or, well, a generic t-shirt, I guess. It's got to be clear you're part of a team.”

“Well, and how much would it cost to-” Nico starts to ask but Marti's head snaps up like he was expecting this.

“Don't even think about it,” he hisses, and Nico slowly raises his hands in the air.

“Hey, I was just asking.”

“You so weren't.”

He wasn't, it's true. But he's not gonna offer if it makes Marti uncomfortable. Nico considers the options they have for a couple of seconds.

“Peccio, read me rule 3.b down there,” Nico hands the piece of paper over to him. “Does it say anything about fancy sports fabrics?”

Il Peccio scans the word quickly with that usual serious air of his, as if he's reading Cicero, or preparing himself to address the Athenian people in the _ekklesia_.

Or looking up how to make beer in your grandma's bathtub, Nico supposes. That requires discipline too. 

“No. But it does say _professional-looking_.”

“Professional-looking,” Nico repeats. He can work with that. He claps his hands once. “Well, gentlemen. You all have plain white t-shirts at home, right?”

“How is that professional-looking?” Luca asks confused, and Nico grins.

He meets Marti's eyes, and feels a sense of pride in how hopeful he's looking right now. Nico wishes he could make him look like that every single day.

“It's not,” Nico says, and winks at Luca. “But it's going to be. Just wait.”

*

It's a lot more work than he anticipated.

To make things worse, his mum catches him youtubeing “how to dye stripes on fabric” on Friday afternoon. It's not the most embarrassing thing she's ever seen him look up on the house computer, not even close. But she stops in her tracks anyway.

“Nico.”

“Mum.”

He can see her prepare for the worst case scenario.

“Please tell me this has nothing to do with your own clothes.”

“This has nothing to do with my own clothes.”

She raises an eyebrow, and Nico is moderately offended but not particularly surprised by her skepticism.

“What? It's true. It's for Marti's football team. I'm doing their uniforms.”

“ _Oh_. Oh, good.” She lets out a sigh of relief and Nico rolls his eyes.

“I'm dyeing my own stuff next week,” he adds for good measure. “I'm thinking bright orange, but I accept constructive criticism.”

She walks over to him and kisses his hair and he lets her. She whispers “I'm sorry”, and he says “I know”. She leaves him to his research then and Nico turns to Youtube DIY gurus for help.

Apparently, paper tape is the way to go.

*

When Marti sees the jerseys for the first time at Nico's place he stares at them speechless for a full thirty seconds before throwing himself at Nico, landing a kiss in the general vicinity of his mouth, and falling onto the bed on top of him, laughing in glee.

When the boys see the jerseys at school the next day, there is a half a second in which Elia looks up at him, eyes sparkling, and Nico thinks he might just do the same.

“Amazing,” il Peccio says, and he almost looks excited.

“Oh my God, Nico!” Luca echoes him, and Gio pats him on the back looking impressed.

And well, the jerseys _do_ look kind of good, if Nico says so himself.

He went for dark blue, because it looks good on Marti and Nico is only human, with a single horizontal crimson stripe across the chest. On the left side he stenciled a vaguely gothic-looking logo in black and white with the team initials.

And isn't it great that Nico got to doodle M and N _multiple times_ until they fit in together just right? Sometimes life is amazing like that.

*

Nico doesn't mind football. He's never played though, apart from when they forced him to in PE and that doesn't count.

He wouldn't say he's a huge fan or anything, but he's seen matches before – la Nazionale aside, he means – and they were okay. He generally says he supports AS Roma because Marti would break up with him otherwise, and since he's not a girl no one has ever asked him to prove he knows how the offside rule works.

But they tell him there is no offside rule in five-a-side, so it doesn't ever matter.

“Basically, it's like normal football, more or less,” Marti explains one afternoon at Nico's place. He's lying on the sofa with his head in Nico's lap, unsubtly asking for cuddles by pressing his head against Nico's hand like a cat would. Nico indulges him and starts stroking his hair, because how could he not. “You've got the goalkeeper; the last man, who's like a defender; two midfilders; and a pivot, who is the striker.”

“Where do you play?”

“We're discussing it, but probably midfield,” Marti says. “Elia is the only one you can play, like, _actually_ play, so he's got to be up front or we've got no chance. And Gio _has_ to be the goalie 'cause none of us know how to do that. Also, I don't like defending, so.”

“You don't like defending,” Nico repeats, and thinks _how very you._

And maybe Marti is learning to read between the lines because he looks up at him and grins.

“Being the last man is not as fun as it sounds like at first.”

Nico smiles bright at that and leans down to peck Marti on the lips. Also, that reminds him of something he'd been wondering about.

“Are you gonna get beat up more or less playing midfield rather than defense?”

Marti pulls his mouth to the side and Nico can tell he's trying not to smile.

“You've never seen a five-a-side match, have you?”

“No. Why?”

“You'll see. You get beat up regardless.”

*

You do.

You _so_ do.

It's the first match of the tournament, they are twenty-five minutes in – 3-1 for the boys: Santini (2', 13', 19'). Elia is _good_ – and Nico has lost count of how many times Marti has been trampled over by the Shrek-like creature that plays midfield for the other team.

That's an expression of course. He hasn't lost count: it's been eight times already.

Marti bounces back every time, but Shrek is a mountain of a guy, and the last time Marti got up after he was tackled he ran with a limp for a good five minutes. He still managed somehow to assist Elia's third goal – but what's ridiculous is that none of Shrek's tackles were fouls according to the ref.

And... here he goes again.

Nico flinches. _Ouch_ , right on the shin, that must have hurt. But of course, that's apparently perfectly legal too.

“Bullshit!” Gabri shouts at the ref – and Nico goes “Language” on autopilot because he's supposedly the grown-up here. But really, that's what he thought too.

“But Nico! That giant guy kicked Marti on purpose and the ref said nothing!”

“I know, Gabri, I saw.”

“Gio should beat him up afterwards.”

Nico smiles indulgently at that.

He doesn't know where Gabri got the idea that his brother's purpose in life is to beat up anyone trying to hurt Marti, but he's got to say it's surprisingly accurate.

Still, he shouldn't encourage this, probably.

“Have you seen the Shrek guy? It's best for Gio that he doesn't try,” he says. “I'm sure he wants to, though.”

“Yeah, look at him.” Gabri giggles and points at the goal where Gio is gesticulating angrily in the direction of the ref, miming that Shrek should get carded. “He so wants to.”

The match ends 5-2 for the boys, with Elia scoring another goal and setting up a surprisingly very inspired Luchino for the fifth. The ref blows his whistle, and Nico sighs in relief.

The boys won. Marti is still alive. No more Shrek.

Thank God.

The boys hug on the pitch, and the whole thing soon turns into Gio and il Peccio attempting to carry a euphoric Elia in triumph on their shoulders. Marti laughs and looks up to the stands.

Their eyes meet, he grins, and blows Nico a kiss.

They should probably be more careful, Nico knows. It doesn't take an expert to know that the football world is not the most accepting. Still, there are lots of people on the stands, no one is paying attention to them, and they should be fine.

Nico blows a kiss back to Marti.

“You guys are kind of lame,” Gabri comments with all the self-assurance of his fourteen years, and Nico rolls his eyes.

_This kid._

*

They hang out at Elia's afterwards, and Marti spends the night draped all over Nico.

He's usually a lot more restrained in front of the boys, but Nico thinks it's what's left of the adrenaline from the match. That and slightly too much alcohol.

Not that he's got complaints. But he _has_ to remove Marti's hands from under his shirt because Luca is staring drunkenly at them from the other sofa with way too much interest and il Peccio's eyebrows have reached his hairline. Basically, there is a line. Somewhere.

They probably crossed it a while ago.

“You're so fucking hot,” Marti mouths against his neck and Nico shivers, but someone has to be responsible here, don't they?

Yeah. Too bad it's got to be him.

“You're so fucking drunk.” He tries to keep the tone light. “You wanna go home?”

“I wanna go home with you.”

“You know we can't.”

“Your car?”

Nico huffs a laugh. Marti can be such a romantic, sometimes.

“I don't have it tonight.”

Marti groans.

“You're so fucking useless.”

“Excuse me? I thought I was so fucking hot?”

“God, are you done?” Elia comes back with Gio in tow, bringing more beer from the kitchen. “If I wanted to watch porn I wouldn't pick the kind that has you two in it.” He rolls his eyes. “Beer?”

Elia makes to offer a bottle to Marti, but Gio subtly steers him away. Gio and Nico exchange an amused glance.

Marti has drunk enough for one night, surely.

They end up crashing on Elia's sofa because the mere thought of walking all the way to the underground station is too much effort. Marti crashes first, lying on top of Nico like a blanket, mouth open, drooling gracelessly all over Nico's shirt.

Nico falls asleep a few minutes later to the unmistakable sound of a phone camera clicking.

*

“Delete this.”

“Are you joking? That's the new team logo.” Elia grins. “Nico, you think you can stencil Marti drooling onto the jerseys?”

“I can try.”

Marti turns to him, offended and betrayed.

“Whose side are _you_ on?!”

Breakfast is an experience.

Marti begrudgingly promises to let Elia copy his Greek homework for the whole month of April and in exchange Elia does _not_ delete the picture, but swears he won't share it on instagram.

“Or facebook,” Marti adds as an afterthought.

“Or facebook.”

“Or the class Whatsapp group. Or any group at all.”

“Oh, come on, Marti, you're so _boring_.”

Afterwards, Luca tries to convince the gang that ketchup and croissants are a match made in Heaven, and Nico is the only one who thinks he might be onto something there.

The rest of Sunday morning is lost in extremely complex calculations on the subject of how many matches they can lose in the group stage and still make it to the quarter-finals.

With that attitude, Nico is not surprised at all when the boys lose the next match.

They make it through anyway, thankfully – mainly thanks to Elia's goals.

But il Peccio insists that the schiacciatina he sacrificed to Zeus at recess the day before the last match is the reason why the other team's striker got sick and they subbed in a guy who could barely tell the difference between football and bowling.

And it's not like they can prove him wrong, so.

_Thank you, Zeus?_

*

“Fares. You here for the football or the boys?”

It's the quarter-finals, things are looking bad on the pitch, and Nico jumps when a familiar voice cuts through his anxiety and forces him to look up.

Filippo.

Nico smiles and scoots to the side to make room for him on the stands.

“I'm here for my boy. Well, _and_ my boys. What about you?”

“I was invited by your boy,” Filippo sits down gracefully next to him. “I actually really like football, but people love to tell me that can't be a thing.” Filippo raises an eyebrow at the guy sitting in front of them, who turns around, stares, and starts muttering something unintelligible, but quite clearly not very nice, under his breath. Filippo rolls his eyes. “I see the environment is welcoming as usual. Good to know.”

“Yeah.” Nico looks around. He points to a spot two rows behind them, to the right, which is mostly empty. “Wanna move over there so they won't bother us?”

Filippo sighs.

“Maybe that's for the best, yeah.”

They climb the steps and sit down again. The view is not as good but at least there are no dickheads around, Nico tells himself.

“So,” Filippo fishes out a lighter from his pocket and pauses to light a cigarette. “How are we doing so far?”

“Not great.” Nico sighs. “3-2 for the other guys and only fifteen minutes to go.”

“Who scored?”

“Elia, twice.”

“Which one's Elia?” He narrows his eyes and focuses back on the pitch. “Is he the pretty one?”

“No, that's Gio. He's the goalie, there.” Nico points him out. “Elia is the one with the earring. I think you've met him? He's the striker.”

“Yeah, Earring Guy,” Filippo blows out the smoke with a smile. “The pretty one.”

“Okay?” Nico laughs. “He'd love to hear that. He keeps badgering everyone that girls don't like him and he's not getting laid.”

“Shame.” Filippo grins. “Marti?”

“Oh, he's getting laid alright.” Filippo rolls his eyes and Nico chuckles. “No, he assisted both goals so, you know, he's doing good. And no one's tried to kill him yet, which is new. But the other guys play well, and I don't think- _Woah!_ Did you see that?!”

That was a handball, if Nico ever saw one. The guy literally stopped Luchino's attempt with his elbow. Inside the box.

“That's got to be a penalty for us,” Filippo says.

“I think so. If the ref's not a dick.”

Nico watches the boys from both teams surround the referee and give wildly contrasting explanations of what just happened. The ref seemingly takes a few moments to consider it – come on, what's there to consider? It's a _handball!_ – but then he points to the edge of the box with his right arm.

It's a penalty.

Nico cheers with the boys, but then he remembers he _hates_ penalties. They're unnecessarily tense.

“God, I don't wanna watch.” Nico covers his eyes with his hands. “Who's taking it?”

“They're still talking,” he hears Filippo say from his left. “No, it's Earring Guy. Elia.”

“Tell me what's happening.”

Filippo scoffs.

“I thought you didn't wanna know?”

“I don't wanna _watch_ ,” Nico corrects him.

“Okay, well. Elia positioned the ball and he and the other team's goalie are shaking hands. There's this guy on our team who looks like he might be praying?”

“That's il Peccio. He's probably asking Zeus to help us by promising him crackers, or something.”

“Right. I always forget you classico boys are this weird.” Nico can picture Filippo rolling his eyes. “Well, Elia is preparing for the run-up... He's going for it. I think he's picked the left corner. Yes. _Yes!_ It's in.”

Nico sighs in relief and removes his hands from his eyes. He smiles when he sees Marti jump on Elia's back, scream right into his ear, and kiss his cheek. Soon the other boys all jump on them too and they collapse onto the grass in a gigantic human pile.

Five minutes to go and it's 3-3.

_Wait._

“What happens if it ends like this?”

“Extra time?” Filippo smiles apologetically. “Then, if no one scores, a penalty shootout.”

“God, no.”

Filippo pats him on the back.

“Better start praying your Zeus then.”

And, well.

Nico will never know if Zeus had a hand in it or not – but if he did, then let it be known that Nico always thought he was a cool guy, you know, marital infidelity aside.

It happens during the last minute of regular time, extra time looming close and the nightmare of a penalty shootout a concrete possibility.

Elia's attempt from outside the box hits the defender on the knee and the ball rolls back to him. He's in a good position and the obvious choice would be for him to try again – except they expect that.

So, instead, he fakes a shot and nutmegs one of the midfielders to pass the ball to his right, where Marti slides in from God knows where and hits the ball with... something. Nico can't tell.

Definitely not his foot. Probably his ankle or his knee. But it's all too quick and messy for the goalie to do anything but watch the ball hit the inside of the goal post and get in.

“Yes!”

Nico cheers and hugs Filo, and they both laugh as they take in Marti's astonished face. It's clear he's struggling to compute what just happened.

He recovers after a few seconds. The boys are running to him to celebrate, but he gets up and starts running in the opposite direction, along the side line, towards the stands. Nico's heart starts beating fast: he doesn't know what it is yet, but he knows it's _something._

Marti looks up and lifts both arms in the air, the index finger of his right hand raised and what looks like a peace sign on his left.

“IV?” Filippo says. “What's that? Like a four?”

Nico doesn't know either, but then Marti joins his index fingers together at the tip, and,

_Oh._

That's clearly an N.

Nico feels everything at once. He wants to cry and he wants to laugh, and he really wants to kiss Marti right now but he's so far away and there are so many people in between. Their eyes meet, and Nico mouths _I love you_ and hopes Marti can see it from this distance.

From the bright grin on his face, he probably can.

He waves at him like they haven't seen in years and Nico ignores the dickheads and blows him a kiss.

It's the kind of thing you only realise later but this might just be the most incredible thing that's ever happened to him.

*

“Ni! Did you see it, right? My goal? It was for you!”

Nico closes the distance between them and kisses him because he's so overwhelmed right now he's not sure he'd be able to speak. The locker-rooms are mercifully empty, the boys still celebrating outside on the pitch.

The kiss starts euphoric, high on Marti's energy and adrenaline, but it soon turns slower, intimate, and meaningful. Nico still isn't sure he's got the words for everything he's feeeling, but he has to say something _now_ or he might explode. It's like Marti's sweet, thoughtful celebration on the pitch unlocked something inside of him, and now he has to get it out.

“You.” Nico leans his forehead against Marti's and tries to come up with the right words. “You are the best thing-”

“No, you are.”

Nico lets out a shaky laugh. He takes both of Marti's wrists in his hands.

“Let me say this. Okay?” He takes a deep breath. “You are the best thing in my life. And I... I'm sorry. I wish I could give back all that you give me.”

“Ni.” Marti smiles at him – kind and proud and so sure of their place in all of this. Like maybe he's seen something Nico missed, like maybe he knows it all already. “You do. I promise you do.”

“But I-”

“Ah!” Marti raises a finger in the air, gently teasing. “Let me say this. Okay?”

Nico nods, a lump in his throat.

“Everything I do, I do because I want to. And it's the same for you, isn't it?” Marti waits for him to nod again. “Hell, you've seen more football matches this month than you have in your entire life! And you've done our uniforms so we could play in the tournament, even though you didn't have to. I'm so grateful to have you.”

“But that's nothing compared to-”

“It's everything I could ask for and more.” Marti kisses his cheek softly. “You're here now, and I know you'll be the voice of reason next week when we lose the semis and I'll pretend I'm not bitter about it.”

Nico smiles, despite it all.

“ _When_ you lose the semis?”

“We're not that delusional.” Marti smiles back. “But you get what I'm saying, right? This is not about who does what, it's about being in this together – whatever _this_ is. And we are, aren't we?”

“We are,” Nico says, and it's more a grateful sob than a sentence, but Marti gets it anyway.

“Then where's the problem?”

They keep smiling at each other, Nico a bit teary-eyed, as they recall where all of this started. Or started again. Or maybe just where they realised it had started already.

_“Where's the problem? I'm right here.”_

Nico is too. And he'll do all he can to be here as long as Marti needs him to, as long as he wants him to.

Marti opens his arms and Nico lets himself be held. He lets Marti care for him, without guilt and without concerns – for once.

“You wanna know a secret?” Marti whispers in his ear.

“Mh?”

“I've practised that goal celebration in front of the mirror for weeks, just in case.”

Nico furrows his brow.

“But the mirror image is flipped.”

Marti laughs, and Nico closes his eyes against the glorious warmth of the sound.

“Yeah, Gio told me this morning. 'What's that wonky V with one more leg supposed to be, man?' What an asshole.”

“An asshole who's got a point.”

“Shut up,” Marti says, and Nico kisses him. It feels like the right thing to do.

**Author's Note:**

> * I can't believe now I have to explain this as if it were actually clever. I'm so embarrassed. Basically, it's a pun on the assonance between Manchester (the city/the clubs) and “Ma 'nce sta”. “Ma 'nce sta nessun artro?” is Roman for “is no one else there/available?”
> 
> Mi scuso per tutto. Soprattutto per la parte verso la fine in cui diventa un po' Holly e Benji. È andata così.


End file.
